Quid Potuit Fecit

 

A Eulogy for Ralph William Peters, Jr.

St Peter's Episcopal Church, Lewes, DE

October 3, 2020

There is an old, abandoned monastery outside of Paris – well, there are many no doubt – but the memory of my visit to this particular monastery comes to visit me every now and again.

 

I was there with several girlfriends of mine – we had just graduated from high school and were taking the summer to hitchhike through Europe which was very trendy (and very cheap) at the time.

 

We had stopped in town and purchased some bread and cheese and wine – and a tin of Gauloises cigarettes, as I recall.

 

We decided that the tree-shaded cemetery of the abandoned monastery was the perfect place to have lunch.

 

As we looked around the headstones, we noticed that each one was carved with the name of the monk, the date of his birth and death, and then the same three words, in Latin.  

 

Quid Potuit Fecit*. 

 

We had just completed four years of required Latin and two years of French but it took us a while before we were able to make the translation.

 

Quid Potuit Fecit translates literally to “What he could do, he did.”

 

When we talked to the locals, however, they, in their very French attitude, translated it (with a shrug and that way the French have of pouting their lips and pleading with their eyes) to mean, “Ah, mademoiselle, you see, it means, ‘he did the best he could.”

 

“C’est ca, ne’st pas? Eeh deed the best eeh could!”

 

He did the best he could!? Well, I was 18 years old and convinced, as all 18-year-olds are, that the world was a mess and all the world needed – what the world had been waiting for, really – was for me to come and fix it. 

 

I was outraged, as were my girlfriends.

 

We thought, ‘He did the best he could’? Seriously? That’s it? That’s what dedicating your life to God gets you? Your name and time on the earth carved onto a slab of stone and the acknowledgment that “Well, the poor soul didn’t have much but, you know, he did the best he could”???

 

No different from all the other poor souls buried here???   

 

“Outrageous!” we thought.

 

I think it was in that very moment that my heart hardened against the institutional church, which served to cement the obligatory young adult period of church abandonment. Those who have survived their own or their children’s adolescence will understand.

 

It wasn’t until years later when I finally grew up – okay, years and years and years later – okay, maybe just a few years ago (when I finally grew up) – that I started to understand that perhaps I was overly influenced by the attitude of the French.

 

That, perhaps, there was a deeper, spiritual meaning of the phrase which could be better found in the original Latin.

 

What he could do, he did. He did the best he could. Actually, that’s more than can be said of the lives some people live, isn’t it?

 

Some people do squander the gift of what Mary Oliver called “this one, wild, precious life”* we are given. They don’t do what they can. They don’t even seem to try, much less do the best they can.

 

As I’ve sat with that phrase in the weeks following Ralph’s death, I’ve come to understand that it is not only high praise, but it really captures, for me, Ralph’s life. 

 

What he could do, he did.

 

I’ve come to know that a person’s life is more than their obituary. It’s much more than their resume. It’s what one has done with what’s merely listed on one’s resume and obituary – the stuff you can’t or wouldn’t list – that is the real stuff of life.

 

What you can do, you do. You use the gifts and talents you’ve been given. It’s the stories that are the glue that holds the list together. Indeed, as those of us who come to church every Sunday have discovered, stories hold the world together.

 

The stories of a person’s life tell us how they took what God has given them and used them, to the best of their abilities – to do what they could.

 

Sometimes, we succeed more than our wildest dreams. Other times, we fail so miserably that we are lead to the brink of despair, to peer into the abyss, there to contemplate meaning and purpose as well as the absurdities of life.

 

We’ve heard some of the stories of Ralph’s life here earlier this morning, from his family. We saw various facets of the uncut diamond that was Ralph William Peters, Jr. 

 

I hope we hear more stories later at the Repast and even later as the years roll on and holidays and birthdays are celebrated and we feel his spirit and we remember.

 

Ralph did what he could with what he was given and built a life on the foundational stones of kindness and generosity.

 

That did not mean that he disabused himself of the creature comforts and luxuries, large and small, of life. He loved his boat, even though he once admitted to me that it was a “money pit”. He frowned when he said and waved his hand dismissively but the flash of the light of joy in his eyes told a different story.

 

No one loved good food and wine as much as Ralph Peters. The few times I cooked for him, I was rewarded with lavish praise, a clean plate and that high-wattage smile.

 

But, to have a good meal and a glass of wine?  On his boat? Especially with friends? As God was painting a sunset? Ah, now, there are luxuries whose value is simply beyond mere mathematical calculation.

 

Even the grad from M.I.T. knew that.

 

He sometimes valued what others questioned the value of – like the grandfather clock that was a wedding gift of his father to his mother that was damaged in The Fire (could that only have been two years ago?).

 

Ralph paid perhaps twice the value of that clock for the parts and labor for repairs, but to his mind, he was saving a memory, salvaging a legacy and tradition, protecting and guarding the love that loved so much, it brought him and his brother into being.

 

His parents wound that clock every Sunday night and then shared a kiss. Ralph and Rita continued that tradition, that liturgy, every Sunday night, complete with the kiss.

 

It was fitting, somehow, that Ralph left this earth listening to the sound of it chiming down the hall. What he could do, he did.

 

Ralph’s life was a life that valued life – so much so that he worked to better the lives of others in big way like trying to provide permanent solutions to the problem of homelessness. 

 

But there were also small ways, like making the coffee for coffee hour every Sunday, a kindness for which he is fondly remembered at St. Philip's, Laurel.

 

What he could do, he did. Mistakes? Sure, he made a few. It’s the unspoken and little mentioned flaw in the qualities of kindness and generosity. 

 

Sometimes, kindness and generosity can lead to being fooled and taken advantage of. 

 

Sometimes, it leads to believing your own press releases and being foolish with the gifts you’ve been given. Even the most precious of gifts. Like, love.

 

Sometimes, that leads to things falling apart. As the poet JmStorm once wrote*:

 

“Sometimes falling apart/

is the way we shake loose the pieces/

that don’t belong anymore.

It’s as natural as the wind and rain. /

So cry if you need to./

Scream if you must./

But never lose sight of what it really is:/

a thunderstorm that clears the air./

 

Through it all, Ralph did what he could and, over the years of sunshine, showers and thunderstorms, he developed what only can be described as an inner glow.

 

It wasn’t always visible. Like the light of the moon, it was hidden, sometimes, by clouds of distress. But, when Ralph smiled, well, his whole face lit up, didn’t it?

 

And, when you were loved by Ralph, you could be assured of basking in the warmth of his smile. 

 

Oh, he’d also take you on and stubbornly argue his point, but even in the heat of  passionate disagreement, his love for you was never in doubt.

 

At least, not for him.

 

Shortly after Ralph died, I asked Rita if they had a song that was ‘their song’.

 

She didn’t take 5 seconds to answer. “You Light Up My Life,” she said. I smiled. My first thought was that Debbie Boone, good evangelical Christian girl, said that every time she sang that song, she always thought of Jesus and sang to him.

 

I smiled again. I know they both loved Jesus, but don’t think that was what Ralph and Rita were thinking when this became their song.

 

I should have known that would be their song. When Ralph and Rita were together, the wattage was enough to light up any room.

 

I imagine that when Rita eventually – not soon, please God, but eventually – joins Ralph in that great somewhere out there some call ‘heaven’, he’ll be free of his walker, and there he’ll be, waiting on a boat to ask her for their first dance together in Paradise. 

 

Quid potuit fecit. What he could do, he did. And, he did the best he could.

 

I’m old enough now to appreciate the full spiritual depth of that ancient phrase. And, like any good dissident daughter, I still have issues with Mother Church, but I’ve obviously gotten over my abandonment of her.

(I don’t know about you, but I always come back for the stories, like all the ones we have heard this morning, and how they are all gathered together – the ancient and new stories – and, once gathered up by the priest or bishop and blessed and offered to God at the altar, become food and drink and nourishment for our weary souls.)

 

What he could do, he did. That will be my word of prayer for him, whenever I visit him here. Or, when his memory comes to visit me.

 

What he could do, he did. And we who loved him could not be more grateful for all that he did, because he did the best he could do.  

 

If we’re lucky, if we do what we can do with this one, wild, precious life, when the time comes for us to take our leave from this earth, the same will be said of us.

 

Amen. 

 

Here's the video of the sermon and eulogy: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DCoqvKFF7bI

 

*With heartfelt gratitude to the Rev. Tobias Haller, BSG, who helped me remember Latin: "Perhaps influence by Anselem of Canterbury and John Duns Scotus’ Medieval view of the Immaculate Conception of Mary: Pontuit, decuit, ergo Fecit

(God could do it, it was appropriate, therefore, it was done.)"

 

* Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean--

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down --

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

With your one wild and precious life? ~ Mary Oliver  “The Summer Day”.

 

*“Sometimes falling apart

is the way we shake loose the pieces

that just don't belong anymore.

It's as natural as the wind and rain.

So cry if your need to.

Scream if you must.

But never lose sight of what it really is:

a thunderstorm that clears the air.

It is not enough to dream, we must also act.

Without action, a door is just a wall.

and remember:

When life closes a door, just open it again.

It's a door.

That's how doors work.

~ JmStorm

 

*But, I can still conjugate in Latin: 

amo amas amat I love, You love, He/she/it love

amamus, amatis, amant: We, you (plural), they, love

Is The Lord With Us Or Not?

 

Is the Lord with us or not?

A sermon on Facebook Live Broadcast

Sirach 26:10 The Headstrong Daughter

Pentecost XVII - Proper 21 A - September 27, 2020

 

As we follow the story of the ministry of Jesus in Matthew’s gospel, we find ourselves today at a turning point.  Jesus has been in northern Israel and the area of Galilee. The story of the father and sons in the Vineyard is significant because it marks the beginning of Jesus' ministry in Jerusalem.

 

The story also marks a shift in the intensity and trajectory of Jesus’ ministry. Just before this story, we hear that Jesus overthrows the tables in the temple and severely scolds the religious leaders there, reminding them of the purpose of the temple as a house of prayer and not a den of thieves.

 

Jesus continues by telling the leaders of the temple the story of the two sons. It seems pretty clear that he’s telling the temple leaders that they are not doing a very good job. Indeed, he declares that tax collectors and prostitutes are getting into kingdom before them.

 

As a reported tax collector himself, this must have been particularly delightful for Matthew to hear. That said, it’s little wonder that the temple leaders hardened their hearts toward Jesus.

 

As Jesus begins to turn his attention away from northern Israel and toward the urban capitol of Jerusalem, it’s not at all surprising that this story marks the beginning of the turn toward the end of his earthly life and ministry.

 

So, buckle up everybody. In the next eight weeks, we’re going to be hearing Jesus quarrel with the Pharisees and Sadducees, the religious leaders in the temple, as he begins to turn his face toward Jerusalem.

 

Yes, you heard that right: eight weeks. Eight Sundays of testing and quarreling, back and forth, between Jesus and the temple leaders.  Eight weeks of unpleasantness.

 

If you’re paying attention, that coincides with the unpleasantness of the Presidential Election Cycle, which is projected to be longer than the usual one day. That means there will be no escape from the testing and quarreling, the unpleasant back and forth, either in our country or in church.

 

Even though you can hear me but I can’t hear you in this Facebook Live Broadcast, I can still imagine your groans in my head. It’s gotten really awful, hasn’t it? The world – our country in particular – seem chaotic and hell-bent on destruction.

 

It’s not a pretty picture, not unlike the scene we witnessed in the first lesson from the Book of Genesis. The Israelites are finally free. They have made it out of four hundred years of slavery in Egypt after surviving seven deadly plagues and a miraculous journey through the raging waters of the Red Sea that parted for them at God’s command until they were on dry land and free from Pharaoh’s soldiers.

 

And now, now that they are free, they haven’t stopped complaining. Last week, they complained about hunger and were miraculously fed bread from heaven.

 

This week, we read that they complained about thirst and quarreled with Moses and tested God saying, “Is the Lord with us or not?”.

 

But, God had Moses use the same staff which God had commanded Moses to use in the Nile and strike the rock at Horeb. Moses did as the Lord commanded and water flowed from the rock, giving all enough to drink.

 

Moses named that place near Rephidium “Massah” because they tested the Lord and “Meribah” because the Israelites quarreled with him.

 

It seems part of the human condition to be incapable of enjoying our freedoms for two long. My grandmother would say, “Some people just have to spoil their bed after they’ve made it.” In other words, some people just can’t leave well enough alone.

 

“Is the Lord with us or not?” Some of us spoil our bed after we make it to see if anyone notices – if anyone really cares. Sometimes, negative behavior gets more attention than positive behavior, and sometimes, like children, we’ll do something negative just to get the attention.

 

There was a kid in my junior high school class, a goofy looking kid named Calvin Hopkins. He looked an awful lot like Alfred E. Neuman. People of a certain generation will remember him as the fictitious mascot and cover boy of the American humor magazine, “Mad”.

 

Except Calvin had blond hair. And, his eyes were blue. But, he parted his hair straight down the middle, had a gap-tooth smile, and big, protruding nose in the middle of his freckled face. His ears stood at an acute angle to his head and his body was scrawny.

 

Calvin was the 8^th or 9^th child of a family of 12 or 14. Nobody really knew. In fact, I’m not entirely sure their parents were ever quite certain how many kids they had.

They lived on a big dairy farm with which also produced goat milk and cheese. In the summer, you could always rely on Hopkins Farm Stand for fresh vegetables and some of the best homemade ice cream that ever hit your palate.

 

With all those kids and all of the work on the farm, I’m quite certain Calvin didn’t get the attention he needed – or, at least, wanted. So, Calvin found that it was just as enjoyable – at times, perhaps more so – to get attention by being a naughty prankster.

 

Mostly, it was innocent stuff. Goofy kids stuff. Spit balls. Sticking signs on other kid’s backs that said, “Kick me”. Pulling girl’s pigtails and running away. Putting a frog in the toilet in the girl’s room. Smearing the toilet seat in the teacher’s lounge with Vaseline. Stupid stuff like that.

 

One day, Calvin outdid himself. Almost literally. I’m not sure why but one year, we spent quite a bit of time in the library – study time, even a few classes. Calvin discovered that almost every magazine had a page – some even a few pages – where you could order stuff. Anything from maps of Ancient China to replicas of the Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria.

 

So, Calvin ordered them. But, he ordered them in the name of the librarian and teachers to be delivered to our Junior High School. Well, it didn’t take long before chaos ensued. The library went into lockdown. All the magazines were removed. Extra teachers were assigned to police the library. And yet, stuff continued to be ordered and delivered to the school. It didn’t stop.

 

Teachers were being called into the office daily and taken to task for ordering things and charging them to the school. The head of the library, Ms. Thelma Chase, a small, quiet, stereotypical librarian-looking woman, came under heaviest scrutiny because Calvin ordered most of the things in her name.

 

The bickering and arguing among the teachers could be heard outside the brake room. Then, the word was out that they were looking for a scapegoat among them, which made some of the kids snicker and snort – Calvin the loudest among them. That was when some of us who had been wondering, knew.

Hundreds of dollars were involved before one day, Calvin snickered just a little too loudly and something clicked in the mind of one of the teachers and Calvin was found out. Which didn’t bother Calvin one bit. He saw himself as a rock star for having pulled off his prank for so long without having been discovered.

 

That wasn’t true for Calvin’s parents who pulled him out of school and put him in a Christian military academy. I often wonder what happened to old Calvin. I also wonder what happened to all those teachers who bickered and argued among themselves, looking for a scapegoat.

 

Is the Lord with us or not? I believe that God was in that situation with Calvin who tested the limits. I believe that God was in the midst of the bickering and quarreling among students and the teachers. I believe God heard the cries of Ms. Thelma Chase, who practically suffered a nervous breakdown over that foolish but expensive prank.

 

Is the Lord with us or not? I believe that the same God who was in the midst of the bickering and quarreling of ancient Israelites is the same God who was in the midst of the bickering and quarreling of the religious leaders in the Temple with Jesus.

 

It is Paul who provides the key to the dilemma of the human enterprise of quarreling and bickering and testing. He says, “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus.”

 

Let that sink in for just a red hot New York minute. “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus.” That would be the same mind that was as capable of calling out injustice and corruption when he saw it. He was also capable of calling people to him, calling out the better angels in them, and calling them to their best selves to accomplish things they could have never asked for or imagined.

 

Is the Lord with us or not? 

 

I believe the same God who was in The Garden as Adam and Eve bickered and quarreled about who gave the apple to whom is the same God who is in the midst of the crisis and chaos and cacophony of our lives today.  

 

And, what of the next eight weeks of bickering and quarreling in the world as well as what we will hear in the church as we listen to the Gospels and follow Jesus as he sets his face toward Jerusalem?

 

Not to worry. Or, as Alfred E Neuman would say, "What? Me Worry?" 

 

God will be there in the midst of us to see us through.

 

As St. Paul tells us, “. . . .for it is God who is at work in you, enabling you both to will and to work for his good pleasure.”

 

Amen.

 

It's not fair!

 

Laborers in the Field - 11th Century Byzantine art

 It’s Not Fair!

A sermon preached on Facebook Live Broadcast

Sirach 26:10 The Headstrong Daughter

Pentecost XVI - Proper 20 A RCL I

September 20, 2020

 

Excuse me while I stamp my foot with my hand on my hip and say, a little louder than is polite, “It’s not fair.”

 

No, seriously! This gospel passage is so far from what I’ve been taught – what I suspect we all understand – about what is “fair” that it makes my head spin.

 

Our first lessons about fairness usually come from our parents about our siblings. We learn to “share, fair and square.” Which means, if you get two cookies I get two cookies.  

 

Later, we learn, if you have two cookies and I have no cookies, you have to share one with me. Which is fine, until the cookie is in the other hand, as it were. If I have two cookies and you have none, I have to share with you. 

 

Wait! What? How is THAT fair? Shouldn’t you have to do something – like, maybe, EARN your cookies?

 

Which surfaces of memory of my kid brother, John. He was about 4. I was about 8. He had two cookies. I had none. He saw me coming and shoved both cookies in his mouth and devoured them even before I got close enough to him to swipe one away or complain to my mother who would slap him upside the head and tell him to share. 

 

I mean, I AM the oldest. Does seniority count for something? 

 

Still later, we learn to navigate the cultural layers of what it means to be fair.  

 

We’ve been trained to believe that seniority is superiority. Those born into privilege would like us to believe that legacy is its own currency. The American ethic is born of the belief that, “If you work hard and pull yourself up by your own bootstraps, you too can be successful. 

 

Unfortunately, very little is ever said about the fact that not everyone’s bootstraps are the same length. Or, quality. Or, level of durability. Or, if you even have bootstraps.

Those who know me have heard me tell stories about my immigrant roots. We worked hard. We had a strong work ethic that was actually a source of no small amount of pride. It was not uncommon in my family for people to have two, sometimes three jobs, not counting a side hustle of selling Avon or Amway or Tupperware or Corning ware products, or “stuff that fell off the truck” and found its way into the trunk of an uncle’s car. 

 

As immigrants, members of my family took jobs in the factories and sweatshops of New England, the owners of which attracted immigrants to this county specifically for their cheap labor and expected grateful silence about unfair wages, long hours and dangerous work conditions. 

 

Indeed, my uncle Gus, the firstborn son of my grandparents, died in a factory explosion at the age of 19, leaving a young, wife pregnant with a son he’d never live to see. Everyone who was at the factory that day, including the owner and his son, died in that fiery inferno.

 

My grandfather had identified his son by his shirt and his shoes and socks. Oh, and the handkerchief in his shirt pocket on which my grandmother had embroidered his initials. All they had left of his body was an arm and a leg for a proper burial. 

 

I remember visiting his grave every year. I remember my grandmother crying and wailing as if he had died just that morning. Seventy years later and on her deathbed, his was one of the names she called.

 

What the owners of those factories and sweatshops didn’t expect was what my family did about their plight: they became involved in organizing labor unions which advocated for fairness and safety and changed the working environment and the compensation and benefit package for everyone.

 

So, you’ll understand and forgive, please, if this daughter of Mill Girls has an initial reaction, every time this gospel lessons appears, to cringe as I stifle the desire to yell, “But, that’s not fair!”

 

Truth be told, that’s exactly the reaction Jesus wants.

 

As my colleague, Kentina Washington-Leapheart writes, 

“This parable is just one example of many in which Jesus uses the power of story to upend the status quo. It’s one that on first reading can feel a bit clunky to understand and apply in our daily lives.”  

 

“Legacy and seniority don’t matter when you have to take two buses and a train to get to the vineyard. Legacy and seniority don’t matter when your citizenship status precludes you from applying for employment for fear of deportation. Legacy and seniority don’t matter when, in the age of COVID-19, going to work everyday can mean, for the most vulnerable people in our society, the difference between life or death.”

 

In the parable of the laborers in Matthew20:1–15, the laborers who were hired first are envious. They don’t see why they shouldn’t get more—a lot more—than those hired late in the day. Our sympathies are with them. 

 

The issue seems one of pure justice: if you work hard and long you get rewarded; if you work just as hard and twice as long you get doubly rewarded.

 

Indeed, the system of our economy depends on us desiring what we don’t have and acquiring something similar or better of our own. That finds its application in a theology of scarcity which informs our image of God.

 

But this is a parable. Jesus is upending our social construct in order to make a larger point – beyond mere justice – a theological point with practical implications about the lavish abundance of God’s creation.

 

What if we thought about “daily wage” differently? What if we understood that the agreed daily wage is forgiveness and eternal life?

 

Ah, now that makes a bit of a difference, doesn’t it? Remember, it’s a parable; it’s meant to provoke imagination and thought.

 

If God is “compensating” us, no matter when we “arrive” at the fullness of the gospel life, the only reasonable response is overflowing gratitude and indescribable joy – not envy or greed.

 

Envy and greed. They are and have always been part of the human condition. These two human dynamics always lead to a theology of scarcity.

 

We saw it in the first reading in Exodus when the Israelites complained to God against Moses and Aaron. We hear echoes of it in Paul’s letter to the ancient Christians at Philippi. My brother knew it when he stuffed two cookies in his mouth rather than share with me.

 

The good news is that God’s grace can’t be halved or multiplied. It’s ridiculous to demand “double eternal life” or “triple forgiveness.” There’s only one reason we’d ask for such a thing—even demand it—and that’s because our envy has so consumed us that we can’t enjoy what we have for fear that someone else might have something better.

The good news is that our God is a God of abundance who lavishes the fruits  of creation upon all of God’s children. 

 

The only reason that a child goes to bed hungry at night, or that some families don’t have their own home, is because we do not trust in the abundance of God. Instead, we allow the dynamics of greed and envy inform the ways in which we live our lives.

 

What if we lived abundantly? What if we loved lavishly and, in fact, wastefully as God does with us? What if we followed God’s lead and gave what we have and expected nothing in return?

 

What if we chose to live our lives so generously and lavishly and wastefully that people – God’s children, just like you and me – are no longer hungry or homeless but people call us fools? 

 

I suspect Jesus would say tous: “Others are envious because you are generous. So the last will be first, and the first will be last.”

 

Amen.

The Heart Expands

 

                              

The Heart Expands

A Sermon for Pentecost XV - Proper19 A - September 13, 2020

Facebook Live Broadcast - Sirach 26:10: Headstrong Daughter

 

It’s hard to believe but it’s been nineteen years since that September morning when four planes were hijacked. Nineteen years since the beautiful autumn blue sky was marred with planes flying into the Twin Towers in New York City, into the Pentagon in Washington, DC, and into an open field in Shanksville, PA, about 60 minutes drive from Pittsburgh, 90 minutes to the Pentagon.

 

Just two days ago, we marked the 19^th Anniversary of that awful tragedy when our country was attacked and almost 3,000 people were killed. At the time it seemed the whole world mourned with us. We had never known such unity, before or since. And, in many ways, we are still feeling the effects of what happened that day, almost two decades later.

 

I think there is a straight line between the chaos that is our current reality in our country and in the world and what happened on 9/11.

 

Into this time, comes Matthew’s Gospel on forgiveness. Peter came to Jesus, thinking that he knew the answer to his question. If someone sinned against him, he asked, how many times should he forgive him? Seven times? Seven sounds like a good number. It’s the number of wholeness and completion, isn’t it? So, I’m sure Peter figures that seven is a good guess.

 

No, says Jesus. Not seven times, but seventy times seven. Even before Peter can do the math and say, “What? 490 times?” Jesus launches into a parable about the Unmerciful Servant.

 

I’d like to share a story with you about forgiveness which came to me as a parable from a clergy colleague who was working, at the time, in Hoboken, NJ. Her name is Laurie Wurm and she is, in my estimation, one of the most perceptively pastoral priests I know – which leads her to her convictions on social justice which informs prophetic action.

 

She tells the story of that time after 9/11, in the city of Hoboken, NJ, where she lived and worked right across the river from what became known as Ground Zero. She helped to create a support group for people whose spouses, fiancés and children were killed during the September 11^th attacks.

 

That first year, she heard stories that were unbelievable and shocking because they were the truth. People talked about having parts of their spouses arrive at local funeral homes and being asked if they wanted to be notified if more pieces were uncovered. 

 

One woman came to the group in tears after cancelling the reservation for her wedding venue. One man was in anguish as he talked about the decision by City Officials to remove the debris from the Towers to the Fresh Kills Landfill because his wife of over thirty years might be there.

 

The three-year old daughter of one of the group members drew a picture for her therapist of a flower, a tree and a butterfly. She asked the therapist if he liked it. When the therapist said, “Yes.” She took the picture back and scribbled all over it. No one had to help her understand what had happened.

 

I tell you these things which Laurie reported not to shock you or disturb you but to remind you that this is a sermon about forgiveness and healing.

 

Six months after they began, a woman named Julie came to speak to the 9/11 Support Group. Her fiancé had been killed in an explosion ten years earlier.   

 

Laurie reports: “The members stared at her in disbelief. She was like a being from another world because she was a whole person: engaged again, full of compassion and very much alive." "

 

When members of the support group asked her how this was possible, Julie gave one of the most profound testimonies to the presence of God I’ve ever heard. She said, ‘The heart expands.’”

 

The heart expands. 

 

At least, it can. And, it will, if we allow it.

 

Do you remember what caused the Grinch to be mean – so mean that he wanted to ruin Christmas for every Who in Whoville? Remember? Of course you do: 

 

His heart had grown two sizes too small.

 

I don’t remember what it was that caused Mr. Grinch’s heart to shrink. The story goes, “No one quiet knows the reason. It could be his head wasn’t screwed on just right. It could be, perhaps, that his shoes were too tight.”

 

There’s no reason given for what it was that made his heart so small that he just can’t feel love and kindness like the regular Who down in Whoville.  But, you and I know people like this. Well, maybe not as bad as Mr. Grinch but we do know people who live and work among us who just seem to be naturally contrary and easily inspired to do and say mean things.

 

I have come to know the truth of the old saying that “Hurt people, hurt people.” That becomes the sad reality when hurt people do not have the opportunity – or do not take the opportunity – to heal their wounds.

 

I once had a Hospice patient – I’ll just call him Jack – who was almost always in constant pain. He refused any of the meds the nurses offered him – except once in a while he’d take a Tylenol. One. That’s it. Nothing more. He was in so much pain that he rarely slept more than an hour or so at a time.

 

As you might imagine, he was miserable and an exceedingly difficult patient. The nurses were at their wit’s end with him. One nurse finally convinced him to see the chaplain. I was asked to pay him a visit.

 

I asked her, other than the obvious distress of seeing the man in pain, what her biggest concern was for him. She said something I’ll never forget. She said, “As long as he’s in pain, he won’t be able to let go and die. He’s prolonging his own suffering and death. It makes me wonder if, somehow, he knows this. I wonder if he feels, as long as he’s feeling pain, he’s alive. I wonder if he’s afraid of dying.”

 

She wasn't far from the truth.

 

When I first met Jack, I was taken aback by his physical appearance. Being in constant horrific pain meant he had little to no appetite and whatever energy his body had went into feeding the pain and not his body. 

 

He was stick thin and as close as a person can get to being rude to me without actually being rude but not exactly being polite. 

 

It was clear he was meeting with me so he could check off a box for his nurse.

 

With his permission, I made a pot of tea and we settled in to “just talk”. I spotted some navy stuff in the kitchen and asked him about his military service. That opened the door enough to get my big toe in. Turns out, that was all I needed.

 

Turns out, Jack had been a Navy seal. Viet Nam. I thanked him for his service. He smiled. 

 

I figured, I had to make my move soon or lose my opportunity completely. 

 

I took a deep breath and said, “I have friends who served there. The ones who came back came home completely changed."

 

I paused for effect, looked him straight in the eye and then said, "I can’t imagine the horrors you saw there.”

 

He looked at me, long and hard, and then he looked through me. Studied me. Carefully. It was easy to see his military training. Then, his eyes filled with tears as he said, “You have no idea, chaplain. What I saw? Ha! That was nothing compared to what I DID,” adding softly, “You have no idea what I did, chaplain. “

 

He took a few deep breaths to stop himself from sobbing before he croaked out, “No absolution, chaplain. There’s no absolution for me. No forgiveness. No absolution.”

 

“And, is that why you’re afraid to die?” I asked. He laughed a sarcastic laugh. “Trust me, chaplain,” he said. “I know where I’m going after I die. Whatever pain I’m feeling here is nothing compared to what I’m going to feel after I meet my Maker.”

 

I let his truth sit in the room with us for a while before venturing to speak again. 

 

“Well, if I had your understanding of God, I guess I might feel the same way. Jack, I’d like the chance to tell you about the God of my understanding. The God I know. Would it be alright if I came back again and we could talk about that?”

 

And, wonder of wonder and miracles of miracles, Jack agreed. I guess everybody eventually gets to the point were "enough is enough".

 

And thus began one of the most important relationships I think I’ve ever had, before or since. There’s lots to say, but I’ll just say this: Jack never forgave himself for what he did, but he came to understand that God did. Or, would. 

 

Slowly, slowly, slowly, he began to avail himself of pain meds. He began to relax. 

 

Slowly, he began to allow himself permission to die.

 

I don’t know how many times Jack had to convince himself that God forgave him. Seven times? Nah, it was probably more like seventy times seven. I do know this much to be true: With each time, he was more loving to his family, more concerned about their reaction to his pain than he was to his pain. 

 

With each deeper meaning of understanding himself to be forgiven, he was able to be kinder and gentler with himself and then to be kinder and gentler with others.

 

Simply? Jack’s heart expanded. He knew himself to be loved by his family and friends. He came to understand that God’s love is unconditional and that nothing can separate him from the love of God in Christ Jesus. 

 

Not even himself.

 

“Well, in Whoville they say – that the Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes that day. And then – the true meaning of Christmas came through, and the Grinch found the strength of ten Grinches, plus two!”

 

Of course, the true meaning of Christmas is that God’s love became incarnate, became flesh, and dwelt among us. In Christ Jesus, we know that God does not stand apart from us and keep order. Because of Jesus, we know that God walks with us into the chaos of human misery and sin. God’s love transforms our anxiety and pain. God’s grace transforms our sin into opportunities for love.

 

Seventy times seven, Jesus says. 

 

I know this much to be true: Each time we forgive, a part of ourselves is forgiven. Let me say that again: Each time we forgive, a part of ourselves is forgiven. We wouldn't be able to recognize the flaw in others if we didn't know it in ourselves.


Which is why, each time we forgive, the heart expands, and our faith finds the strength of ten Grinches, plus two.  

 

 Seventy times seven.

 

Amen.